


Pickman's New Model

by Holy_Leonards



Category: Fallout 4, Night Gallery
Genre: Anal Sex, Crack, Detective Case, H.P. Lovecraft, M/M, Night Gallery Story, Penis Monster, Pickman - Freeform, Pickman's Gallery, Rod Sandwich, Sandwich, Sex on top of Nick, Windows updates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 00:04:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7244230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holy_Leonards/pseuds/Holy_Leonards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tonight's Stars: Nate Asimov, John Hancock, Nick Valentine, Strong, Penis Monster, and Rod Serling.</p><p>This is a tale straight from the darkest depths of an unknown chasm. Two men, desperate to find a lover that disappeared in the night, take their pet on an exciting journey to the unknown. It does not end like your typical fairy tale and may even leave you begging for me. A story of this caliber can only be found, in the Pickman Gallery [Pain...so much pain in that expression.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pickman's New Model

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short story adaptation of the Night Gallery episode, which was an adaptation of H.P. Lovecraft's short story, Pickman's Model. Some things may have gotten lost in translation. Submitted for your approval...

Sun crept across the dirty bedroom floorboards, through the smudged glass, onto handsome faces. Bloodshot eyes opened.

Nate bolted up, looking around. “Hey, Hancock? Where’s Rod?”

The ghoul pulled the covers over his face. “Do you know what time it is, asshole?”

“Half past seven.”

“Let me go back to sleep.”   
“Hancock, in the afternoon, not morning.”

“Unreasonably early.” John burrowed deeper into bed.

Nate got out of bed, yanking the blankets off the thin frame.

“Listen, Assmuff...” said the gruff voice. Followed by a gurgled cough.

“It’s Asimov.”

Hancock continued coughing. He spit something into his hand. Dare eyes stare at the blackened, quivering lung. “Shit!” The mayor reached back into his mouth, down his throat, putting the lung back in place. Laughing, he said, “Rod and Nick, brother. They’re secondhand smoke’s going to kill me one of these days.”

“Not if they disappear!”   
Black eyes narrowed. “If who disappears, Muffy?”

“Jesus Fuck! Here’s your Mentats!”

“Thanks.”

The familiar pop is the only sound in the room, as Hancock opens the tin. Pouring the entirety of the contents into his hand, he said, “That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout! Woah!”

The ghoul made it rain Mentats, as he tossed them in the air. Then bent over, scrambling to collect the precious chem.

“There, I feel much more intellectual now.” He looked back to the bed. “Why hasn’t Nick woken up yet?”

“He was updating his Windows operating system last night.” Nate cringed. “Is it really taking this long?”

Hancock analyzed the synth’s eyes. The lights were blue, and spinning. “He’s still shutting down.”

“This is going to take forever!” The human grabbed John’s shoulders. “Do you know what this means? Nick’s as good as dead! 100, 200, fuck maybe even seven years could pass before that shit’s done updating!” Tears streaked Nate’s face. “We need to get Rod back. Who will be our smoker buddy, if Nick’s updating?”

The ghoul’s face softened. “Listen, Muffy. We’ll find Rod.”

“Where do you think he went?”

Hancock glanced around the room for clues. “Fuck! This would be so much easier with Nick! Think, Hancock, think!”

His eyes fell onto a copy of H.P. Loveshaft stories, a well-used dildo (melted by silicon-based lube), and a note. He stuck two irradiated fingers into the dildo puddle, collecting the liquid on the digits. “It’s still warm. He can’t be far.”

“Look! A note!” Nate nudged Hancock. A hint.

John looked over the note, sucking his dildo-fingers. “Picket Gary.” He looked disgusted. “What has poor Gary done to be picketed?”

“Honey, no. It says Pickman’s Gallery.”

“Gallery...” Hancock could taste the word. “Gallery. Muffy, that sounds familiar.”

“I don’t know. Sounds Serling-y, though.”

“What’s that book, anyway?”

Nate looked pained.

“Rod’s rubbing off on you.” Hancock thought about what he’d said. “Ha!”

“Honey, take more Mentats.”

“With pleasure.”

Suddenly, Hancock understood. Not everything, but a lot of things. Not rock science, but he could probably understand Scorpio Rising if he’d read a few summaries of it.

“Muffy! That book, there’s a story in it called Pickman’s Model! Odd Rod wanted to do a TV adaptation, remember?”

“Yeah! Then we told him TV was over! And he cried!”

“It’s all making sense now!”

“How do we find this gallery?”

“I have an idea,” said Hancock, shocking Nate. John whistled, and whistled, and whistled.

“Woof!”

“Strong! Good to see you, Big Guy!”

“Strong hope we find milk of human kindness soon.”

“Nate hopes you do too,” Asimov said, waggling his eyebrows.

Hancock elbowed him in the ribs. “Brother, that’s not consent.” He cleared his throat, prolapsing it in the process. John sucked his Esophagus back up, like spaghetti. “Strong, smell this.”

The Super Mutant sucked the note into his nostrils. Nate turned to John. “Remind you of anything, baby?”

“Wrong universe. Rod’s in his late forties, not several hundred years old.”

“Oh...” Horror struck. “’Cock! If he’s almost 50...”

“Don’t worry. He won’t be mowing any lawns anytime soon.”

I feel awful making that joke. I do not like making that joke.

“Shut up, DiMA.”

Okay. I’ll just remove it from my memory.

The room shook. The two looked to see Strong sniffing the floor aggressively. “Found something, Handsome?” Nate said. “Ow!” He cried, as Hancock dug his elbow between his ribs.

Strong jumped through the window. John and Nate followed in hot pursuit.

“Man, this guy is so muscular. How can he run so fast? Don’t the muscles weight him down or something?”

“That’s why he doesn’t wear much clothing,” said Hancock. “If he wore a reasonable amount of clothing, he’d be weighed down too much.”

“Oh!”

Before they knew it, they were at Pickman’s Gallery. “Strong smell something tasty.”

“My Ass-imov, perhaps?”

Strong shook his head.

Hancock shook his head.

Pickman shook his head.

“Alright, do you remember the story?” Nate asked.

Hancock shook his head, again. “Never read it. Watched Rod preform some kind of one man show of it, though.”

“What do we do?”

“First, we got to stalk.”

The dynamic duo skulked around the house, looking through windows. “See that obvious monster hand?”

“Mhm,” Nate nodded.

“We clearly ignore it.” Hancock blinked. “Rod said something about an Opium den being nearby.” Hancock’s lungs watered.

“No! Get your head in the game, ‘Cock! And then what?”

“We break in, real easy.” Scarred tissue reaches for the door knob. “You know, let’s not reenact the whole thing, It gets really uncomfortable. Something about monster procreation.”

“Yuck!”

Hancock nodded.

They slowly creeped into the house like creeps. “Rod? Pickman? You guys here? Listen, I love artists!”

“Where could they be,” Nate asked.

“You are entering the 6th dimension...”

“Odd Rod? Why the Sixth dimension? Why have you skipped a fifth dimension. Aren’t they’re only four?” Hancock had many questions.

“Oh… Aren’t there five?”

“I think you need some Mentats, baby. Where are you, anyway?”

The duo left the safety of the well lit section of home. Away from the lace curtains, the windows, the door. Deeper into the house.

“Rod?”

The noticed something off about a particular painting. A short man in a sharp suit was holding it up, hiding his face behind it.

“Hey, Good-looking...” Hancock halted when he saw the painting, recognizing it, knowing the title for some reason. “‘Ghoul preparing to die...’” He looked hurt. “Isn’t that a little offensive.”   
Rod made his trademark pained expression, and lit up a cigarette. “Don’t blame me. Loveshaft, a known racist, wrote the original Pickman’s Model.”

“Alright, Odd Rod, get out from behind that painting,” said Nate.

The cutie peeked out from behind the frame. “Good evening, and welcome to Night Gallery.” He walked through a thick cloud of Marlboro cigarette smoke. “A potpourri of paintings slightly tilt and left of center.”

“Alright, that’s enough, baby.”

There are no keys on any English keyboard that could depict the pained expression Serling made.

Hancock approached Rod. “Oh, Mr. Serling,” he growled, grabbing the other man’s ass.

There was a roar, rattling the house, shaking the paintings. The triumvirate embraces, leaving Strong to the side. They glance up the stairs, into a doorway, to the source of the sound.

A silhouette.

“Hey, isn’t that a World War One era helmet he’s wearing?” Asked Nate.   
A hissing sound comes from the shadow’s direction. Something bubbles out the top of the helmet, dribbling down the head.

The being slowly made it’s way to the landing.

Another roar.

The beast showed itself. Pink, squishy, fleshy. It resembled a toy the three were all familiar with. It was a penis monster.

“Wait...” Nate said. “This isn’t Pickman’s Gallery! It’s Prickman’s Gallery.”

The men screamed. “We have to do something!”

“We have to fight it,” said Hancock.

“What?” Nate said.

“It’s true. In the story, they trapped the gho-”

Hancock’s eyes narrowed.

“The monster… They locked it up.”

Nate was the first to ask the obvious. “What? Do we find a giant butthole to stick it in?”

“I’m sorry,” Hancock said. “My butthole’s the biggest out of all of ours. It won’t do the trick.”

They thought long and hard (heh), as the phallic menace approached.

“This is very Freudian,” said Hancock. “Someone had man problems.”

“Guys,” said Nate. “Leave DiMA’s daddy issues alone.”

“We could,” Rod started, “lock it in that closet.”

Hancock smirked. “Uh-huh.”

The three men charged, pushing and shoving the fleshy abomination into the small room. “Slash at its groin!” Someone yelled, “You gotta push push push!” yelled another.

Hisses persisted from behind the locked door. Milky liquid pooling from the bottom of the door, wetting their shoes.

“DiiiIIIiiIIIsgusting! Diiiisgusting!”

They booked it out of there and back to their home. They did not stop for anything, not even to grab Strong's leash. They just left him there.

When they got home, all three collapsed on the bed.

“Man,” Nate said, “ All that fighting penis got me...Roddy.”

“What?”

“Horny of course!”

“Us too!”

“Wanna make something of it?”

“Wait. What about Nick?”

They looked over to see the swirls still going in his eyes. “96%” in the center of them.

“That's where it has been stuck since we left to find Rod.”

“Best not to disturb him.”

They wiggled out of their dirty, penis-monster-semen covered clothes and started rubbing each other, three ways.

Nate looked up and grinned.

“Wanna make a...Rod sandwich?”

“You bet!”

“Radical!”

Nate rolled over and onto Nick's updating body. Rod got on top of him and Hancock on top of him. Nate wrapped his arms as far as they could reach and sunk his paws into Hancock's rotting tummy flesh. He then lifted the connected men up and started rocking those war veteran hips. I'm talking strong, muscular, combat proven hips. They rocked some other veteran hips and those hips rocked some chemical veteran hips.

The well worn prostates of Rod and 'Cock were getting a work over as the sandwich started to ooze its slimy condiments. Semen and fecal matter (Holy shit) mixed with lube and lust was getting all over Nick's body. They all climaxed in perfect synchronization.

Nate set them down on the bed and they spooned just like that. Each one was soft inside of the other as they rest there, asleep like three babies that just got done eating their nutritional mush. Love like this can only be found in this story, Prickman's New Model, and the repository, (badly edited with the voice being of a different pitch than the rest of the sentence like in Season 2 episode 10 of The Night Gallery) The Night Gallery.

 


End file.
